


Three Hundred And Seventy-Five Days

by McFif



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, More tags to be added, be gay do crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-12 14:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20566265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McFif/pseuds/McFif
Summary: After a devastating fight with his girlfriend, twenty-three year old Peter Sjögren find himself binge drinking in a unfamiliar part of town. The only bar he has not been kicked out yet happens to be the local pub of one Kalle Ek, drag queen, criminal, and perhaps unconventional guardian angel.





	1. October 10th, 1985, the last day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rennakins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rennakins/gifts).

> I wrote this first chapter more than two years ago, but by publishing it now I hope to trick myself into finally continuing this story. It is one very close to my heart, and I would like to be able to share it with people who are interested. Unfortunately, I can't transfer my ideas into their head, which is why I have to write them down, I guess. A friend helped me out with the Spanish, since I don't know any Spanish, but desperately wanted to convey Peter's experience with a second language he has never used in actual conversation before. Finally, I'm very sorry that their story has to be told in this order, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Welp.

Peter shuffled into the row of seats and fell down on the one by the window, his legs finally giving in. The cushion was not as comfortable as it had looked. Dropping his backpack between his feet, he brought his hands up to his mouth, breathing into his hollowed palms. He could not start crying now, he did not want anyone to call the medics. If he had to get off the plane he certainly would not be able to go through the whole procedure again.

They had gotten up at five in the morning, much earlier than they had needed to, and went out for breakfast. Peter loved being out in the city when the streets were still empty and the sun had not fully appeared above the roofs. It was like they were the only people in the world, and the whole city belonged to them. Kalle, of course, did not need the early morning hours to feel that way; when he set foot on the street it _was_ his. There was a kind of reckless confidence in everything he did, like the results of his actions did not really matter – he would not regret anything. That was the whole difference between them.

Kalle had bought him a croissant, which was really sweet f him, but Peter had not been able to eat more than a few bites. So they had just quietly sipped their coffee instead, and Kalle had smoked three cigarettes. He had not even complained about the taste – Kalle preferred cigars – which somehow had been the worst part. If Kalle was not complaining about cigarettes there was something really wrong, and it was more than the slight awkwardness between them.

Neither of them had mentioned the night before. It was better to pretend it had not happened, or at least had not meant anything. Peter was sure it had not meant anything to Kalle, but that did not mean he needed to actually hear Kalle say that out loud. And it was completely unnecessary to embarrass himself by admitting how much it had meant to _him_, how he had been waiting, hoping for Kalle to finally make a move. Peter had expected that it would change everything, but it had, in fact, changed nothing at all.

By the time they had gotten into the car he had felt like crying, and Kalle must have felt that something was wrong, because he had put his hand on Peter's arm and said: “It's only for a few months. You'll be fine, and I'll be right there with you before you know it.“ Peter had felt the warmth of Kalle's touch through the fabric of his shirt. He had not been entirely convinced that he was going to be fine, but the way Kalle had rubbed his arm with his thumb had been comforting, and Peter had calmed down a little. It was true; no matter how hard the following months were going to be, they would be over soon enough. And maybe afterwards he would get a chance to tell Kalle the things he had not been able to say the night before – the things he had been meaning to say for a while now.

Saying goodbye at the airport was worse than anything Peter remembered. The memories of losing Maria and the first few weeks in Kalle's apartment paled in comparison, but maybe that was only because he hardly remembered anything from this period. At the time he had felt like dying, but looking back it did not seem that bad at all. This too would pass.

The terminal was too big. After spending so many months in Kalle's small basement flat he had felt lost in the giant hall. After they had checked in his luggage Kalle had straightened his collar, his fingers brushing against Peter's neck and jaw, and, with an unnaturally quiet laughter, told him to “be good“. Peter had wanted to kiss him, but had been aware of how that would have been inappropriate for more than one reason. So he had settled for a hug. Kalle had seemed shocked at first, but then Peter had felt his body relax. When he had returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Peter's waist, it had almost seemed a little shy, as if he was not quite sure how to touch Peter. Wrapping his arms around Peter in bed, when he was drunk and a barely awake, was no problem, and Peter had not seem Kalle blush when he had pushed him down on the mattress and kissed him until Peter had felt dizzy less than twelve hours before – but a simple hug in the broad daylight, when he could not blame it on the ninth or tenth shot, seemed to breach an unspoken rule Kalle had set for himself. He had finally pulled back, telling Peter it was time to get in line for the security check. Peter had felt relieved, too. A little longer and he might have ruined everything, either by kissing Kalle or by starting to cry. He had promised himself to not turn around again, but right before it was his turn to pass the body scan, he cast one last look back. Kalle had stood in the exact place where Peter had left him.

“I'm sorry, are you alright?” A business man with a receding hairline and thick glasses had sat down beside him and scrutinized Peter with a worried crease between his brows. “You're not going to have a panic attack, are you. The flight will be delayed.”

“I'm not going to have a panic attack”, Peter assured him, although he could not say the same thing about an emotional breakdown.

The man sighed in relief, but then seemed to feel bad about it. He cleared his throat before speaking up again. “But are you – is there anything else?”

Peter shrugged, uncertain how much he should tell. He did not feel much like having a conversation with a stranger, but it should be good practice. The safest lies, he knew, were always ones that were not completely made up, but merely twisted the truth, so he finally said: “I had to leave someone behind.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Something like that.” Peter smiled sheepishly, hoping to suggest a complicated love story, something the man could sympathize with. “We're not together. I never dared to ask if she feels the same way.”

“She went to the airport to see you off, that means something”, said the man in a strangely paternal manner. “I remember how nervous I was when I first asked my wife out. But she said yes in the end.”

Peter nodded. He was growing tired of the conversation already. Things would not just magically work out for him and Kalle in the end, and he wasn't in the mood to think about it either. Not when he actually had things to look forward to: the warm climate of the Canary Island and a pretty good job offer. Four months ago they had come across a job advertisement by a travelling agency. They had been looking for a Swedish tour guide and for a hotel in San Agustine. The only requirements listed had been basic knowledge of English and Spanish, which Peter had worked on very hard ever since, and an open and friendly personality, something Peter could fake easily. It had been a while since he had had a proper job; he had relied on Kalle for much too long. This could be a chance to move on from what had happened, a chance to grow up, and maybe when Kalle would come to meet him in March, he would see more than the scared little boy he had taken pity on a year ago. This thought would get him through the long days without Kalle, without any familiar face at all.

The four hour flight felt unnaturally long to Peter. He had packed a book about the aboriginal population of the Canary Islands, the Guanches, an intriguing topic, but after a couple of pages he admitted defeat. He could not focus on reading. He tried to sleep for a while, but it was loud, and cold without Kalle's arms around him. A look at his watch told Peter that Kalle should be almost home by then. He wondered if Kalle would miss him at night, if he would feel as cold and lost as Peter did. It seemed unlikely. Maybe his bed would not even be empty, now that Kalle had the flat to himself again. Maybe he was glad he had it freedom back. No – Peter did not want to believe that. He had felt a connection between himself and Kalle, even if it was not of a romantic nature. Kalle did care about him, and when they would see each other again in March –

His thoughts were interrupted by a politely smiling stewardess who wanted to know if he would like to have lunch. Peter declined; he was not hungry. But he ordered a cup of coffee.

Finally, he felt the odd, tugging sensation in his stomach, which announced the decent of the airplane. It was a rainy day, and the island appearing underneath the thick blanket of clouds seemed grey and dull amidst the ocean. It did not at all look like the pictures Peter had seen in books and travel magazines, all blue and green and golden.

The captain's voice echoed trough the plane, asking the passengers, first in Swedish, then in English, to fasten their belts during the landing. Everyone began packing whatever they had been occupied with during the flight back into their bags, double and triple checking so they would not leave anything behind.

Then the runway appeared under them, and the plane touched down.

*

Due to the different time zone it was barely two in the afternoon when Peter managed to get a hold of his suitcase and stood outside of the airport, but he felt incredibly tired. He had been supposed to meet the maître of the hotel he was going to work at, the Mirador, at 1.30, but it had take forever for his suitcase to arrive. He could only hope that the man was still there, although he had no idea how to recognize him.

He scanned the few hundred cars at the park and felt panic well up inside him. It was impossible to find anyone here, especially when he had no idea who he was looking for, even if he was still here. He was contemplating just lying down and waiting for his death, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“_Usted es Peter Sjögren, __verdad?_“

Peter barely managed not to scream. He turned around and found himself facing a man with dark hair and enormous Sunglasses, which made it impossible to guess his mood or age. Peter had dedicated countless hours to acquiring a “basic knowledge“ of Spanish, but listening to audio lessons and having an actual Spanish person talk to him were different things, apparently. But there was one thing he had managed to make out: his name.

„_Sí "_, he said quickly. „_Sí_, s_í, _ _ Peter Sjögren!“ _

The man frowned at the different pronunciation of the name. „_Estoy Pedro, el maître d'dôtel... _ “ He continued to explain things in Spanish, but he must have gathered from Peter's confused expression that the young Swede had a hard time following him. „_Pedro _ “, he repeated, „ _ me llamo Pedro. _ “

Peter nodded, and managed to say „ _ mucho gusto _ “.

„_Encantado _ “, said Pedro and smiled. „_P___or aqu__í n__o est__á__ lejos del hotel. Veinte minutos, quiz__á__s un poco m__á__s. __¿__Est__á__s cansada__?__ “ He looked at Peter expectantly, and added: „Sleepy?“

„_Muy cansado _ “, said Peter, and Pedro laughed.

„_Claro que ha sido un vuelo largo. _ _ ¿__Tre horas? _ _ ¿__Cuatro? ___Hemos preparado una habitaci__ón para ti, uno del salón del personal. Te gustará, es muy bonita. También te va a encantar la isla. He visto a muchos extranjeros llegar y quedarse. Les encanta aquí___._“

Pedro lead him to a small bus covered red paint which was beginning to spall. The inside was stuffed with boxes and bags, papers and other objects. „ _ No te preocupes de las cosas en el suelo, pisot _ _ é _ _ alas _ . “, instructed Pedro as he opened the passenger seat. Inside the car, it was even hotter than outside. It didn't bother Pedro very much, but he was wearing a casual polo t-shirt, and Peter, wanting to make a good first impression, had settled for a more elegant white shirt which was now both sweaty and damp from the drizzling rain.

„__Tendr__í__as que abrir la ventanilla__ “ Pedro pointed at the crank handle underneath the window and demonstrated the movement. Peter nodded and managed a small, thankful smile.

Pedro pulled out of the parking lot and onto a highway. Peter could see the building of the airport to his left, then it vanished all he saw for a while was a variety of exotic plants and hotels. Somewhere behind them lay the ocean. When finally a patch of stony beach and turquoise water appeared between two buildings, much like a picture detail on a postcard, he could not help but feel the tiniest twinge of excitement in his chest. „ _ Es hermosa _ “, he mumbled, and Pedro flashed him a grin.

„_Te lo he dicho. _ “

*

The hotel complex of the Mirador consisted of one main building, where the reception, the dining hall, the pool and many other spa and recreation facilities were located, and a number of small two apartment bungalows, lined up in rows like a small village. The staff living quarters were at the ground and second floor of the main building, each of them having it's own tiny bathroom, a hallway and a bedroom. Pedro was making an effort to speak slow for Peter's sake, but he talked a lot, and sometimes he got a little lost in his own monologue, and forgot to slow down. Then, suddenly, he stopped and looked at Peter. „_Lo siento, tienes que estar cansada. _ _ ¿__Te apetece continuar ma__ña__na? _ “

Peter nodded. „ _ S__í__, gracias _ . “

„__Bueno, te ense__ñ__o tu habitaci__ó__n. Pero ante todo cogemos tu carn__é__ del personal, as__í__ que puedes tomar un caf__é__ gratis. Pero solo un filtro de caf__é__, no otras bebidas___._“

A little later, Peter was finally in his little one-room apartment. Everything was very bright and very clean, the complete opposite of Kalle's flat in the basement of the bar. He sat down at the edge of the queen-size bed and realized that somewhen between leaving the airport and now he had grown tired of feeling sad. All that was left in him was exhaustion and a slight headache.

He unbuttoned his shirt and opened his suitcase to find something comfortable to sleep in. He pushed a pair of jeans aside, only to reveal a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Immediately, his heart started to pound. Had Kalle...? He did not really seem the type. And true enough, when Peter had opened the package what he held in his hand was a picture frame and an envelope with a note:

_ I know you'll meet a lot of great people and see many amazing things, and I'm very proud of you. But don't forget that there a people back at home who care for you, and a place you can always return to. - Maurice _

Peter's hands were shaking when he opened the envelope. It contained a stack of black and white photos from the bar – Peter vaguely remembered seeing Maurice with a camera, asking people to move together and smile – but some of the pictures had been taken without the subjects' knowledge. At the very bottom of the stack there was an image of him and Kalle, which must have been taken after a show. Kalle was still in drag, only his wig was removed. They were sitting at the bar together, so engrossed in their conversation that they hadn't noticed Maurice taking the picture. He was talking and Kalle was smiling in that way of his, that always made Peter feel hot underneath his clothes.

He did not notice that he was crying until he heard himself whimper. Then it felt like a dull pain in his chest that grew and grew until it closed his throat and made it hard for him to breath, and he could have screamed in pain. He doubled over, his fingers pulling at his hair, clawing at his neck, and it hurt and would not stop.


	2. October 4th, 1984, the first night

** I**t had been slow, grey Thursday, and the bar was not particularly crowded. Maurice had served a couple of dinners – a thick pea soup – and spend more time chatting to customers at their tables than behind the counter. Usually that was not a big problem; if someone wanted another beer they took it from the fridge and added it to their tab. No one would cheat Maurice out of a few Kronor. And should they have the audacity to try – there was something obviously malicious about wanting to cheat Maurice – Kalle was usually at the bar to let them know that was a horrible idea. All it took was a look.

After having spend most of his adult life in prison Kalle did not have many other acquaintances beside Maurice and the regulars at the bar, since that was where he spent most of his free time. He earned the money to spent there by removing furniture, and lived in a spartan apartment underneath the bar, which was, due to a lucky coincidence, already payed for. Originally it had been turned into an apartment and rented by an old prison pal of his, who had recently vanished without a trace – after paying two years in advance. The circumstances were slightly worrisome, of course, but fortunate for Kalle. It was more of a hole than a flat, really, just close enough to life in prison for Kalle to be comfortable. But it came with the perk of living in close proximity to alcoholic drinks as well as Maurice's cooking and his friendship, so Kalle didn't complain. He was not especially good of taking care of himself and preferred comfort over effort. Had it not been for Maurice's caring nature, Kalle would have lived on canned food, quite possibly not even warmed up. He knew Maurice worried about him, which was the only reason he tried. He got a job, he left the flat occasionally, he ate somewhat healthily and he allowed Maurice to take care of him. It was the best he could do.

No one had noticed the shadow looming outside the block window front, the shape of a hand which stood out against the yellowish glass tiles. Only when the bell above the door rang did they notice the young man entering the bar. He had blond hair and a face that could have been handsome had he not looked so miserable, and like he had not slept in days. He did not wear a jacket, but it did not seem to bother him very much at the moment.

„Oh dear“, said Maurice and was about the get up from the lap of a customer, when Kalle signaled him to stay put.

The newcomer slowly staggered towards the bar, apparently looking for someone who could sell him a drink, and confused by the fact that there was no one behind the counter.

„Can I help you“, Kalle asked with a radiant smile.

From up close, he realized “man” was barely accurate. He could not be much older than twenty. Kalle propped himself up on the counter, close enough for their shoulders to touch. The young man's shirt was damp. He slowly turned his head to look at Kalle and frowned, like he was having a hard time following Kalle's words.

„I want a drink“, he finally said, and grabbed the counter top so hard that his knuckles turned white. His hands and cheeks were red.

„I bet you do“, Kalle grinned and looked over to Maurice, who was shaking his head vigorously. „And believe me, no one understands that better than I do, but are you sure you can take another one?“

„Hopefully not“, muttered the young man.

Suddenly Maurice was beside them. „Is he okay“, he whispered.

Kalle shrugged. “Nah, I don't think so. But he wants a drink. It's on me.“

„Absolutely not.“

„A beer can hardly do any damage now.” He turned to the young man. “You like beer right?”

The young man squeezed his eyes shut and made a grunting noise that sounded either like a confirmation nor an objection.

„A mixed one maybe“, decided Maurice. „You give him one then, and don't leave his side. I'll go and get him something warm to wear. It's barely five degrees outside.“

Kalle nodded and walked around the counter and crouched down in front of the fridge.

„Are you allowed to do that“, asked the young man, voice slurred. „You're not a bartender.“

„Well spotted, kid. I fucked the owner of the bar“, explained Kalle. The young man's eyes widened, and the gears in his head began turning almost audibly, but it only clicked when Kalle handed him the bottle and slid his arm around his waist. „You can hold onto me if you're having trouble standing.“

„Oh God“, the young man murmured. „You... you're... Is this...?“

Kalle just grinned and moved his hand a little lower. „Do you still want that drink?“

„No other place wanted to give me one”, replied the young man flatly.

„Can't imagine why.”

Then Maurice was back with a dark blue woollen pullover. „It should fit you. It's also totally your colour“, he smiled. „I'm Maurice, I own this place.“ He took the young man's hand and shook it lightly, and Kalle saw the worry in his eyes he when he felt how cold they were.

„Peter“, the young man said finally, but his reaction timed seemed to bed getting a little longer with each reply. „I'm not gay.“

„That's alright“, Maurice assured him. „Look, Peter, I can't let you go out on the street all on your own again. I have to make sure you're not going to get yourself killed!“

Peter muttered something unintelligible, before sinking against Kalle's shoulder.

„I'll take him downstairs“, Kalle said quickly. „I'll take care of him.“ He was not overly fond of the idea of having to stay up all night and watch over a child who did not know his drinking limits, but he knew that if he didn't do it Maurice would. And Maurice deserved a break from taking care of everyone.

The expression in Maurice's eyes betrayed that he was imagining every single thing that could go wrong with letting Kalle look after another human being and Kalle could not blame him. He himself wouldn't have trusted himself to take care of a house plant. But Maurice just sighed and put his hand on Kalle's back.

“Keep him warm. I'll bring you some blankets if you need more. It's freezing down there and I have no idea how you survive. Give him some water and stay awake if you can”, he instructed. “I'll check on you before I go to bed.”

“Sure thing”, said Kalle with a smirk. „I'll make him hot.”

„I know you wouldn't do that.“

Kalle's grin softened into an honest smile. „Don't worry, he'll be fine. I'll make sure of that.“ He kissed Maurice's cheek. “You enjoy the rest of the night. I think someone's lap feels really cold without you.” He nodded his head towards the man Maurice had been chatting with before Peter had appeared.

It proved difficult to drag a semi unconscious body down the stairs. If he had been dead Kalle wouldn't have had to try so hard not to drop him or smash his head into the wall. But the shallow breathing against his neck and the cold fingers clenched in his shirt were a constant reminder that the life of another person was quite literally in his hands. Kalle was thankful for every bed and every wardrobe he ever carried in and out of flats on a daily basis, a job that required little cerebral matter and was thus perfect for Kalle.

The young man – Peter – kept on mumbling apologies to someone named Maria.

After making it down the stairs pushing down the door-handle with his elbow did not seem like that much of a trick anymore. He kicked the door open and stepped into the room sideways, carefully putting one step in front of the other in the dark. His so called flat consisted of two rooms; a smaller room with a sofa and a small table, and slightly bigger bedroom, if one could call it that despite the fact that Kalle did not even own a bed, but slept on a mattress on the floor. There was no bathroom and no kitchen either, so Kalle shared the facilities with the bar upstairs.

When he hit the side of this mattress with his foot, her carefully bent over and put Peter down, without crouching down first like he was supposed to because it was better for his back, of course.

„You better not be dying in my bed“, he muttered, more to himself than Peter, wrapping the young man in his blanket.

“I wish I was”, said Peter, much more clearly than before. „I want to be dead.“

„Yeah I got that the first time. Thank fuck Maurice didn't, he wouldn't have found it funny. Now do you remember how I got you that beer? How about you cooperate with me in return. I'll bring you a glass of water and you're going to drink it. Maybe eat some crackers if you feel like you can keep them in. I'm also going to get you some more blankets, so just hang in there for a second. And put on the pullover!“

He did not wait for an answer, but walked over to a antique dresser on the wall, one of the few pieces of mismatched furniture in the room. He found two more blankets, although one of them smelled a little musty. After throwing them at the bed he he rushed back upstairs. He caught a glimpse of Maurice's worried mother hen expression before he made it to the kitchen, a long and narrow room right behind the counter. Maurice used it to cook for his patrons and Kalle used it to make coffee, which seemed like a good idea right now. He poured himself a cup and filled a glass of tap water for Peter, and grabbed a half-empty package of salty crackers. While he was not very good at taking care of himself or other people, Kalle was very good at this; survival mode. A minute later he was back downstairs with Peter, closing the door behind himself to drown out the noise from the bar. Now the only light in the room came from a few narrow windows towards the backside of the house.

Peter had not changed into the pullover but he had not moved either so Kalle decided to let it slide. He places the drinks and crackers on the floor in safe distance to the bed and reached for Peter's shirt, making him jump. Kalle noticed with some relief that his responsiveness was good.

“Relax, kid, I just want you to put on dry clothes”, he said in what he hoped to be a soothing tone. But he could not help but let his eyes wander a little when Peter reluctantly let him take off his shirt. Neither could he help but notice the bright red streaks on the white skin of Peter's neck that looked like they had been caused by fingernails. Something he would have to ask Maurice what to do about. Peter raised his arms cooperatively when Kalle picked up the pullover from the floor and Kalle managed slip it on without problems. “Now drink”, he instructed, handing Peter the glass of water.

Peter threw back his head and emptied the glass at once. He nibbled at the crackers, too, but as he began to sober up, he seemed to grow anxious. Kalle wasn't known for his great mental capacity but it wasn't hard to guess what was on his mind.

“Are you expecting me to sleep with you?”, Peter finally asked with great effort.

“Were you hoping I expect you to”, joked Kalle.

Peter didn't seem to get the punchline. For a few minutes he didn't say anything, but stared at a stain on the blanket.

“250 quid”, he finally said, paused again, and swallowed audibly, “for a blowjob.” It sounded more like a question than an offer.

“Is that price negotiable”, asked Kalle without batting an eyelash. Of course the straight guy would assume that he was dying to fuck him. If he hadn't been used to it Kalle might have been offended, but he had seen boys like Peter before; on the street, in prison, even at the bar. Sometimes they were just curious, sometimes they were in denial. Peter's luck was that he was cute, so Kalle had a little more patience with him. The poor boy really seemed to contemplate a cheaper price, so Kalle quickly added: “I'm kidding. It might surprise you but I don't need to pay someone to blow me – luckily for you! Someone else might though, so you better be careful with offers like that.”

Peter blushed at Kalle's words, and lowered his gaze. He seemed relieved, but at the same time disappointed.

„I really need money. I have no place to stay”, he admitted.

„Stay here then”, Kalle heard himself say, much to his own surprise. “At least until you find a better offer. Maybe a prestigious brothel?”

Peter stared at him blankly.

“Another joke. I guess you're not in the mood for jokes tonight, huh. Okay, baby steps then. Maybe you should get some sleep”, Kalle decided.

“Will you be here”, Peter asked very quietly.

“I'm supposed to to look after you, make sure you don't choke on your vomit or something.” He took a sip of coffee as if to emphasize his intention to stay up. “Is that okay with you?”

The boy took a deep breath and bit his lip. Kalle felt like he shouldn't be starring, but they were really nice lips. He decided to get and bucket before his mind could wander in an uncomfortable direction. He really couldn't afford a 250 Kronor blowjob.

“I'll get you a bucket in case you need to throw up. But I will be back, that's not up for discussion. Maurice is going to kill me if you die.”

When he came back Peter had lain down and cocooned himself in the blankets Kalle had given him, but he was still shaking.

Kalle somehow wished there was more he could do. Patience was not his forte and he could imagine more pleasurable ways to spend the night than sitting around and hoping the stranger in his bed would not throw up. Yet there there was this strange feeling in his chest, warm and a little uneasy. Was that how it felt to care about whether another person lived or died? Of course he didn't want Maurice to die either, but Maurice had never given him much of a reason to worry about him. Usually it was the other way around. If so, it was a lousy feeling, and Kalle made a silent vow to take better care of himself for Maurice's sake. For now he would do what Maurice had done for him during the worst nights; wake.

** * **

It was barely two in the morning when Kalle heard a soft knock on the door and Maurice's voice announcing that it was him. There was a lock at the cellar door, but since Maurice always locked the front door, Kalle only used it when he needed his privacy. 

„How is he doing?“

„He's fine“, said Kalle dismissively. „We've both seen worse.“

„But you you stayed awake?“ Maurice pointed at the pile of empty mugs on the floor. „You know you can use them twice?“

„I always forget them here, and when I'm in the kitchen I'm too lazy to come back to get them.” Kalle shrugged.

Maurice sat down beside him on the edge of the mattress and handed him twoTupperware boxes. „I brought you the rest of the soup and some bread.“

„I could kiss you“, murmured Kalle and rested his head on Maurice's shoulder.

„Don't mention it.“ Maurice smiled. He enjoying mothering Kalle a bit, although he was several years younger and Kalle was more than capable of looking after himself – most of the time, at least. But there was a difference between getting by and actually taking good care of himself. Kalle rarely talked about his past, but Maurice knew that he had no living family, and he was almost sure that he was Kalle's only real friend. Especially since Dan had vanished.

„Do you need anything else?“

Kalle shook his head. „Go to bed. Good night!“

„Alright. If anything happens-“

„I know where to find you.“

Maurice lingered by Kalle's side a few seconds longer before returning to his flat above the bar.

Kalle watched him leave and allowed himself to think of the things he could be doing if he wasn't babysitting a drunk boy – although of course not with Maurice.

But he _ was _ babysitting a drunk boy, there was no helping it. He wasn't supposed to sleep, but Kalle decided that resting a little couldn't hurt. Peter made a few unhappy sounds when he lifted the blankets, but as soon as Kalle's warm body was curled up against his, he seemed to be content enough. Kalle suspected he wouldn't be as happy if he was sober, but right now he could feel the boy's steady heartbeat under his fingers and heard him breathe calm and evenly. It was a funny feeling. Not because he had never held another man in his arms; while he wasn't big on affection, he enjoyed the warmth of another person in his bed, especially after they'd fucked. But this was different. They hadn't fucked, and surprisingly it wasn't the first thing on his mind either.

In the darkness, all he could make out was the curve of Peter's ear, sticking out from under the pile of blankets. Kalle sighed, and pressed his forehead against the boy's neck, and soon after he had fallen asleep.

  


*

The next thing he felt was an elbow in his face. Since it wasn't the first time this happened, Kalle only needed the split of a second to react. Before he really knew what he was doing, he found himself on top of Peter, who was trying to fight his grip with claws and teeth. He was kicking and screaming and Kalle had to cover his mouth to make him shut up. Of course this did nothing to calm the boy underneath him.

Then, slowly, Peter seemed to remember where he was and stopped resisting Kalle's grip.

“Ha, I thought you wanted to die. Didn't seem too keen on it just now”, grinned Kalle.

“Get the hell away from me”, spat Peter. “I'm going to call the police! Don't touch me!”

Kalle raised his eyebrows. “That's a pretty bold threat, considering I sort of saved your life last night.” He inspected his bitten hand closely before giving Peter a suggestive smile. “I didn't think you were the kinky kind”, he teased. But Peter's sense of humour still hadn't recovered, and he just stared intently up at Kalle, who was beginning to wonder how much the boy remembered.

“You're in my bed”, he explained helpfully.

This only unsettled Peter further, but he was obviously too afraid to ask.

“I just made you you wouldn't throw up”, Kalle finally said, rolling his eyes. “Nothing happened. I don't lay hands on little boys.” With some effort he got onto his feet and made a half-hearthed attempt to straighten his clothes. He was still wearing his jeans and shirt, and felt like he could use a shower. “Listen kiddo, can you stay put for another ten minutes? I'll be back with coffee.”

Coffee was the magic word that finally undid the suspicious tension on Peter's face. “I think I could really use a coffee”, he admitted.

When Kalle returned, Peter sat at the head of the mattress with his back against the wall and one blanket wrapped around his legs. He look terribly tired, the dark circles under his eyes stood out almost purple against the sickly yellow skin, and he still looked a little scared, but not completely mortified anymore. He reached out his hand for the coffee as soon as Kalle entered the room.

When he handed him the mug, Peter flinched back from his touch, almost spilling the hot drink.

“I'm not contagious, you know”, Kalle joked.

“Yeah”, muttered Peter, but did not really give the impression that he was listening at all. When Kalle sat down beside him he did not even seem to notice, at least he showed no reaction to their proximity. Neither of them said anything until the mugs were empty.

Kalle knew that he should be asking things, find out what had gotten Peter so upset that he ended up at a shady bar in one of the less respectable quarters of town. He knew it's what Maurice would have done, and would have wanted him to do, but Kalle really didn't care. Not because he did not care about Peter at all – surprisingly, he did feel a vague sense of responsibility for the boy – but because he preferred to judge people by their present actions, rather than their past. There was only one thing he really wanted to know.

“When you woke up you thought I was someone else, didn't you? Did someone hurt you?”

It took Peter a minute to understand what Kalle meant. He slowly shook his head. “Nothing like that.” After a few moments of deliberation he added: “It's about money.”

Kalle nodded. He was aware of Peter's money worries from his immoral offer the night before, but he doubted that Peter remembered much of that.

“I told you, you can stay here as long as you need to”, he reminded the boy. “I'm used to sharing my bed.”

This time the corners of Peter twitched ever so slightly. But the prospect of a smile vanished again as soon as it had appeared. “What about your boyfriend though?”

“My who?”

“Your boyfriend”, Peter repeated hesitantly. “With the beard? I'm afraid I don't remember his name.”

“Oh, you mean Maurice. He's not my boyfriend.”

“I thought you said-”

“I said we fucked. That's not the same thing. Not always. It isn't for me, anyhow.”

Peter's cheek had turned red at the somewhat crude definition of their relationship, or perhaps the topic in general. Still, he persisted: “He seemed nice though.”

Kalle huffed. “Of course he is. Maurice is a great guy, I just don't want to be his boyfriend. I'm not the relationship type, I guess.”

“Ah”, said Peter, and fell silent. It was obvious that his mind was somewhere else already. That was something Kalle could relate to. He quickly grew tired of idle conversation, and as far as he was concerned discussing his relationship with Maurice didn't get them anywhere. He felt no need to convince Peter that the picture book ideal of a family he had in mind was not superior to Kalle's friendship with Maurice. He didn't care much for Peter's view on relationships either.

He was about to say as much when Peter spoke up again.

“I'm sorry, you must think I'm an ungrateful asshole. It's just – I was pretty drunk, I don't really remember much of what happened and what was said...” He cleared his throat. “Your name. I can't remember it either, I'm sorry.”

Of course, Kalle had never mentioned his name. Maybe Maurice had addressed him as Kalle in Peter's presence, but he was sure that neither of them had introduced him. Kalle did not own much, even less of which was worth anything. His name was among his most valuable possessions and he did not give it away easily. In the wrong hands, it could perhaps send him back to prison. But Peter was in a much more vulnerable situation at the moment, and did not appear to be a great threat in general.

“Kalle Ek”, he said, and offered his hand to Peter, who smiled weakly and accepted the greeting.

“Peter Sjögren.”

Kalle places his second hand over Peter's – what a nice hand it was – and held on to it for a little longer that what would have been appropriate.


End file.
